


Dragons Die

by Ramzes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:37:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They only intended to bring the dragons back. They never intended to bring death. The tragedy of Summerhall. AU now, with the release of TWoIaF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the long days of summer, Summerhall was a lovely place to be in. Its shades and marbles offered a much needed respite from the heat and rank air of King's Landing. Targaryens loved spending their time here with the bare minimum of entourage and servants. In the last years, especially, the King had been experiencing both joy and grief, something like painful delight that kept dragging him here, where the shadows of his childhood loomed – his horses, his training, the mornings when he had joyfully opened his eyes, eager to see what the new day brought him. In the night, loved ones made appearances – Daeron, constantly tormented by his gift, Aemon with his quiet strength, the tragic Queen Aelinor who had stepped up to take the role of the mother he barely remembered as best as she could, his childhood friends, some of them now scattered around the Seven Kingdoms, others dead for him in the battlefields, his restless father who had spent his life in the shadow of guilt and regret, Dhaella with her unfailing, overwhelming kindness, so different from the rest of them. And Rhae. Rhae, with her Dornish eyes and Targaryen hair, with her cheeky smile and sharp wit. She had not been his favourite sister – as a child, he had loved Daella just as much. Rhae had just been the love of his life. The queen on the throne next to him. The queen of his heart. Here, he felt closer to her than he did even at the chambers they had shared at King's Landing. He could see her anywhere – in the great hall, at the towers, near the fountain, on the swings he had swung her in when they had been children. At the same time, it was here that he felt her absence most severely. It hurt that she was no longer here, that none of them was, but at the same time, it brought peace to his mind. Here, he could feel that they had existed. That he would join them one day, soon. The family and court followed, of course, his lead. Not that they minded. Summerhall _was_ an enchanted place.

A cursed place, now.

They should have awoken the dragons. They should have been rejoicing in their success. Instead, everyone was scrambling around in panic, trying to extinguish the fire, to save themselves. To save the magnificent castle.

Rhaella screamed again and staggered back from the window when the wing opposite to her room collapsed in a cloud of rubble that almost rivaled the cloud of smoke enveloping the gardens. Desperately, she tried to open the door of the adjoining chamber but slammed it back when she saw the firewall crawling toward her slowly, relentlessly.

Her wide eyes looked around wildly. Earlier, she had sent all her attendants away – the child had been restless and she had been reluctant to tolerate anyone's presence. Nothing had been to her taste – the rosewater was too sweet, the bed too feathery-soft, the girls too chatty… She had wanted to be alone, with her discomfort and the soothing thought of Bonnifer… And now she was truly alone. Amidst the flames. With a heavy pregnant body that impeded her movements.

She was going to die.

She ran to the main door of her bedroom, hoping against hope that fire had not come this way yet. Deep inside, she knew that it had been the first direction it had taken but still she hoped. She was fifteen year old and she wanted to live, live…

The flames started crawling up the door the moment she came near. Rhaella jumped back and felt a sharp pain slicing through her belly. _Not now,_ she thought desperately. _Please, baby, not now. Don't you see I'm trying to save both of us? Don't you see?_

The firewall was coming towards her. Behind her back, there was a loud bang and the windows broke in hundred of splinters, some of which tore at her face and palms. Rhaella barely felt any pain, she was too consumed by her terror.

"Rhaella!"

The roaring of the fire was so thunderous that she did not register her own name. She would die in flames. She would burn. She only hoped the smoke would suffocate her before fire reached her flesh.

"Rhaella, are you in there? Rhaella, open up. Open the bloody door!"

She ran for the adjacent door she had slammed only minutes ago. The heat was so high that the doorknob left blisters to her hands while she struggled with the lock. She whimpered in pain but did not stop.

"Aerys!" she cried in relief as soon as her brother threw the door open.

His eyes were wide with fear, his face as pale as his hair. On his head, there was a covering dripping water. Soon, it would be completely dried. He clasped her in his arms. "Rhaella! Thank gods you are alive. You didn't answer and I… Rhaella, I thought…"

She wanted to weep with fear and relief. At least she wasn't alone now.

Aerys took their surroundings in one desperate glance. "Summerhall is burning. We need to get out of here!"

"How?" she asked. "The fire is everywhere."

"The way I came. Is there any water here?"

She pointed at the ewer at her bedside table. Aerys grabbed it and poured it over the covering, then threw it over both their heads and hurriedly led her through the chamber. At the sight of the flames coming nearer, Rhaella recoiled but went bravely forward. The frantic movements in her belly threatened to knock her down, she was shaking and so was Aerys. They were both going to die here, she knew it. When they reached the staircase, the heat hit them right in the face.

"Aerys!" Rhaella screamed, having lost her brother's hand. "Where are you? I can't see anything!"

"I am here, don't be afraid" he choked out and gripped her hand again. The smoke was so dense that they could barely breathe. "Rhaella, we must go on."

"So we shall," she managed and together, they went.

In the hall, they saw a white figure. A Kingsguard. It was near impossible to make out his face. Rhaella tripped and fell over. Aerys barely managed to get her up, her belly was weighing her down too much. He wrapped an arm around her to help her walk faster. But they did not know where to go.

The Kingsguard was now near them. Ser Ilan. He was dragging along Steffon who seemed dazed. Blood was trickling down his left temple.

"Steffon!" Rhaella cried out and tried to rush to him, only to groan and clutch her stomach. "Where are the others?"

He shook his head. His eyes looked strangely lifeless, as if he was not fully aware of what was going on. "I don't know. I was in the Blue Hall when…" He gulped. "I don't remember."

"Ser Ilan!" Aerys shouted. "How are they?"

The knight's jaw tightened. "I don't know, Your Grace. We must go now."

Aerys and Rhaella both looked at him incredulously. "Go?" Aerys asked. "You want to _leave_?"

"I don't want to!" But then Ser Ilan realized that it was neither time nor place for explaining himself. He made a quick step aside to avoid a falling rafter. "I must get you out. The King's command. There is a secret passage somewhere here…"

"There is," Rhaella said. "It is too far away."

Yet, they had no choice but try to reach it.

* * *

Rhaelle was screaming, her face flushed a deep shade of red, her purple eyes almost black with horror as she was desperately clinging to Jaehaerys' hand. The sudden collapse of an inner wall had left her hanging over the edge of the third-floor hall and her brother was on his knees, trying to pull her back. The fire was roaring, drowning her screams and his. She could only see his lips moving. Behind him, a small silhouette fluttered and disappeared. Rhaelle could no longer fight the exhaustion and the pain in her fingers. She was slipping away, downwards.

"Rhaelle!" Jaehaerys cried. "Don't let go!"

Her fingers tightened around his with a last bout of desperate strength. He finally fought the swimming in his head enough to scramble on his feet.

For a moment, it looked as if they would succeed. He started pulling her out and Rhaelle screamed with the effort to help him. But then, an ornament from the ceiling fell, sending Jaehaerys flat on his back and Rhaelle, with a horrifying shriek, down to the marble surface of the forecourt.


	2. Chapter 2

Ser Ilan looked around and made a quick assessment of the situation. There was no doubt that Summerhall would burn down… taking many of the poor souls who were scrambling around in panic with it. Ceilings collapsed, marble statues shook back and forth as if they were going somewhere. Air burst through holes left by windows blown apart and paint swell in bubbles before peeling off the walls. A young maid-servant ran past them, her eyes wide with fear, her mind not directing her at any particular exit at all, her instincts driving her to run, to get away from the fire.

His duty was to protect the royal family, his orders – to take the King's grandchildren to safety. But it could not happen, not with the Princess and Lord Steffon being as they were. The young lord had taken a bad collision with a falling beam and was now fighting a swimming in his head that made every step of his twice as slow as it would have normally been. Princess Rhaella was worse off, clinging to Prince Aerys' hand, eyes black with horror, better concealed than the serving girl's but just as strong. Her belly prevented her from running as fast as she needed to. She was taking immense pains but she was slowing them down nonetheless because she was always tripping, falling, barely rising to her feet – each time, Ser Ilan expected it would be now that the two boys would not manage to haul her up – and always, always stepping on her skirts.

They entered the late Queen's chambers. Rhaella was screaming something but the hissing and spitting of fire would not let Ser Ilan hear it. He only made out the word 'passage' and decided that the secret passage must be somewhere here. Or maybe he just wanted to.

Now, the Princess was leading the way. There were tears pouring down on her face… and then, suddenly, Aerys yanked her back and they fell backwards. A big wardrobe had toppled over, right in front of them. Had they stayed where they were, they would have been buried beneath it.

"Rise, rise!" Aerys shouted, hauling himself up and trying to drag her to her feet. But she was holding her belly and moaning. Ser Ilan hurried to help. That was when he saw the panic, now unconstrained, in her eyes.

"What are we going to do now?" she shrieked. "The way is barred!"

Aerys and Ser Ilan turned to the fallen fixture. The fire was raging behind it, licked it, bathed the oak in fierce red. They could not reach the secret passage. But they could not stay here either!

With the two men's help, Rhaella scrambled to her feet and they headed back the way they had come. The smoke was so thick that they only saw the outlines of each other.

"Aerys!" someone suddenly yelled next to his ear. "Rhaella, Steffon! Are you well?"

"Yes," Aerys choked, trying to shake off the sudden new shock. Then, with his free hand, he gripped the hand of the man who had spoken. "Where is Father, Uncle? Why isn't he here! Where are the others?"

"Keep going," Duncan Targaryen said sharply. There was no way he was telling them that Jaehaerys was trapped in the burning main hall, along with the King and probably Rhaelle, as well. He had seen her round there in the beginning of the ritual… Still, it was possible that she had left before things got out of hand. _Please, let her have left in time!_ "Come on, this way!"

Behind him, Ser Barristan Selmy, the new hero of the Seven Kingdoms, looked around in awe and horrified fascination. Duncan motioned for all of them to follow.

"Where are we going?" Steffon asked.

"Come on, I am telling you! I'll take you. Ser Barristan, help the Princess."

Duncan ducked under Steffon's arm and dragged him at the start of their ragged line. Ser Barristan rattled an apology and caught Rhaella at her other side, looking as if he feared his boldness to touch her as much as he did the fire. The bumping against his side almost made him jump – the unborn baby was reacting to their distress with a distress of its own. Rhaella moaned and twisted against her will but she did not stop, not for a moment.

And they kept going.

* * *

An enormous egg rolled across the hall and bumped against the wall without as much as a scratch. It was beautiful – bright yellow with crimson, violet, and ivory streakes. Aegon kicked it out of his way and kept running to where Jaehaerys was lying in a pool of blood and ash.

"The entire castle is burning down!" the Lord Commander's voice bellowed.

Aegon registered what he was hearing and did not care one bit, his head filled with only one vision – Rhaelle, her mouth agape, her hands gasping for ones that were no longer there, falling, falling… Then, the image flickered, replaced by the real view of Jaehaerys sprawled on the floor unconscious, his hair a halo of silver streaked with rubies. He was lying near the very same spot where his sister had plummeted to her death.

"Come!" Ser Duncan yelled. "We must get you out!"

There was only a small upturned table between Jaehaerys and him. Aegon skirted it and then he was there.

Even unconscious, Jaehaerys groaned with pain. His left arm was being consumed by the flames that were running quickly upwards, to his shoulder. His fingers were stubs of black and ash already, his forearm a crumpled raw mess.

Aegon looked around, frantic. No water. Nothing even remotely useful. Nothing to stiffle the fire with, not even a cushion.

Nothing… but one thing.

With a swift motion, he took his sword off. His palm immediately stuck to the hot hilt. He grunted but did not drop it.

"What are you _doing_?" Ser Duncan bellowed somewhere from his left.

And Aegon struck.


	3. Chapter 3

"The fire can't be stopped!" someone wheezed out. The smoke was choking all of them so severely that Rhaella couldn't say whether it was Aerys, Ser Barristan, or Ser Ilan who were all near her – the voice was literally unrecognizable. "Summerhall is lost!"

But were they lost? She, Aerys, Steffon? The child who was fighting his way to this world? Rhaella had stopped pleading with her babe to keep still – it was coming and there was no way around it. Fire and blood, really! A dragon in their purest! She laughed hysterically and was grateful that in the crackling of the fire no one could hear her doing so.

Her uncle let go of Steffon for a moment. Ser Ilan took his place while Duncan ran for the window to assess the situation. The smoke had made his face as black as his hair. Somewhere along their way, he had bloodied himself in a few places. His finery was now thorn in a few places.

Still, when he looked at them, his expression was wary but controlled. "We can still manage our way here," he said. "The fire is bigger in the upper storeys."

"Yes, Uncle," Aerys called out in response.

"Follow me and don't break the line. If someone falls behind, we might not even notice and they won't be able to catch up."

Aerys caught Rhaella more tightly and the babe kicked again. "Yes, Uncle," he called out again.

Duncan took his place at Steffon's side again. "Come on."

Over them, ceilings were burning, candelabra fell with horrendous crashes, spreading molten iron and gold that licked Ser Barristan's feet. He cursed and instinctively leapt apart. Left without support on one side, Rhaella's clumsy huge body keeled toward the floor. Aerys barely managed to keep her up; in the next moment, the young knight was at his place again, as fierce and devoted as ever.

The flames roared nearer and nearer. Duncan and Steffon disappeared into the smoke shot with red streaks of fire. She looked up and screamed; Aerys and Ser Barristan followed her look and leapt forward, with her hanging helplessly on their arms. They barely made it out of the room before the ceiling fell crumbling down. Behind them, a shower of scraps of stone and marble erupted, a storm of sand made them blind. Rhaella moaned and closed her eyes.

"How are you?" her uncle bellowed.

"We're fine," Aerys choked out. "Faster," he snapped.

Walls were falling, burning beams stuck out everywhere. Rhaella stumbled over the body of a handmaiden, horrendously squashed in the mass panic to get out. It was the first time she realized that for a while, she hadn't seen any servants here. Were all of them dead?

The fire was falling upon them like a terrifying fire bird spreading its deadly wings. Just a minute, and no one would be able to breathe any more. Just a minute, and the fire would spread on the lower floor, too.

"Here!" Duncan bellowed.

He entered a room, dragging Steffon who was almost completely dazed. The others followed as fast as they could.

Ser Barristan slammed the door shut. They were now in a smaller, more remote chamber. The fire was still hot on their heels but they had a few moment before… before what?

"Rhaella," Duncan ordered, "give Steffon some water. You three, help me."

Rhaella staggered for the table, fumbled with the goblet. Steffon shook his head not to bother and give him the decanter instead. He swallowed a few sips, moistened his face and seemed to feel better. He gave the decanter to Rhaella. The water was stagnant, smelly. Rhaella thought she might throw up. But it eased the burning in her throat nonetheless.

In the far end of the room, the men were pulling a plank from the wainscoting. With a click, it came out and a part of the wall slowly rotated on hidden hinge in front of Rhaella's wide eyes. A tunnel. A dark tunnel.

Her uncle looked at them. "Come on, hurry up! It leads to the Watch Hill, all the way to its top. I hope there aren't any fallen walls or anything but even so, that's your best chance. Run and don't look back."

He looked at the two knights. "I entrust their lives to you. Keep them safe."

The two men nodded. "Wait!" Steffon finally found his voice. "Aren't you coming with us?"

Duncan shook his head. "I'm staying. There's no time for arguments," he added in a voice that brooked none. "I have to find your parents. And the King. Hurry up already!"

On the entrance of the secret tunnel, Rhaella turned back. Her uncle stood, looking at them, savoring their faces. The thought that they might never see each other again was too much to bear.

As if by cue, the baby moved again. It was descending and the pain was excruciating. Rhaella bit her lip and entered the tunnel, dragging Steffon along. The two knights followed.

Like Rhaella had done, Aerys turned back. Duncan made a move to propel him off, but then suddenly stopped. His entire face changed in a mask of agony, regret, horror of the grievous mistake they had made this day. He reached out, drew Aerys closer. For first time in months, Aerys did not avoid the contact. "Forgive us for everything," Duncan said and this time, it was not only the smoke that choked his voice. "We were making plans for the greater good, yet at the end it's the Seven who decide. Now, the entire future of the Targaryen line lies in you."

"And in her, as well!" Aerys was staring at the place Rhaella had stood only moments ago, with the onetime affection he had lost for her since their forced wedding.

"Now, go!" Duncan urged and pushed him inside the tunnel, slammed the plank back, looked at the ceiling. The fire roared. He knew that by now, the flames would have blocked his way out, so he did the only thing he could: he lunged for the window and fumbled with the lock, throwing the pane open moment before the fire knocked the door out. The first floor was still quite above the ground level but he jumped anyway, curled in the air, landed on his feet in the turmoil of the courtyard where servants and animals ran panicked. He looked up and held his breath at the eerie beauty of the place he had loved to retreat to wrapped in flames.

He ran for the main wing, praying that he wasn't late, that he'd be able to do something, anything. How was he to reach the great hall? The fire had cut all roads before him. He reached the place right under it and looked helplessly up, then down… straight at his sister's body. He screamed, dropped to his knees, pulled her upright, shook her… Her eyes were staring at him unblinkingly. Her head lolled and fell on her chest.

"Rhaelle! Rhaelle!"

She was dead, he knew that, yet he couldn't stop calling out her name and shaking her, heedless of the crazed horses galloping and whinnying around him, hoping that maybe, just maybe…

"My Prince!"

He didn't recognize the face in front of him. A servant. But he looked, dazed, at the direction the man was pointing, and froze at the sight of two more bodies. _No, not them too!_

Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was as impressive in death as he had ever been in life. His eyes were closed, his face untouched by the fire. _The smoke must have killed him_ , Duncan realized, and if this stalwart man had succumbed to the smoke, what chance did Duncan's sickly brother have? Jaehaerys had been having troubles with his lungs since he was born. Now, he was sprawled in Duncan's feet, eyes closed, mouth twisted. His left arm was no more, cut off by a blade, the wound then cautherized to stop him from bleeding to death. Duncan knelt to him, placed his ear near his chest and almost drew back. Jaehaerys was still alive! How?

He jumped up and leaned over to gather his brother in his arms. He didn't know what he could do, just that he needed to do something.

Someone bumped into him, he started and swirled over, to the mad cascade of hooves and heavy bodies that he had forgotten. In the chaos, a black horse reared up. A mule pushed into its rump. The horse swung its legs. Duncan saw what was coming but didn't move. He knew that should he make a step away, Jaehaerys would be lost. He rose fully and stood between his brother and the crazed animal, sheltering Jaehaerys with his body, even when the hooves came down with the entire weight of the frantic beast . His head cracked open and he fell atop his brother. Duncan, Aegon V's oldest son, had withstood fear and pain.

Around him, the entire upper floor collapsed.


	4. Chapter 4

"I can't go on," Steffon groaned. The world was blurring before him, his head throbbed, his muscles were claimed by weakness that crawled from the spot where the beam had fallen on his head hours ago downwards.

Aerys clasped his cousin's hand more tightly. "Oh yes, you can," he snapped. "We cannot stay in this tunnel, Steffon. The fire will catch up with us… unless the castle collapses all over us first."

Involuntarily, they both held their breath, listening closely to the rumble over their heads. Steffon could imagine the burning furniture, the collapsing walls, the people locked in place under the debris, unable to move, waiting helplessly for death to claim them… Over the beating of his heart and the rush of his blood, he heard what surely must be screams of people and panicked bleating of animals, and he could not distinguish between the two.

He made an effort to make a step forward. For a few steps, Aerys dragged him but then Rhaella screamed. "The Princess fell down!" Ser Ilan warned sharply. "Don't move!"

In the dark tunnel, they could very well bump into her without seeing her. The other three stopped while the knight was helping her rise, with her unable to stop the pitiful whimpers pouring from her lips.

Aerys hesitated. "Ser Barristan," he called. "Help Steffon. I am coming, Rhae," he added. "Are you hurt?" he asked, for her moans showed that she was in great pain.

She clung to his arm. "Stay here," she whispered. "Walk with me."

"I will," he promised and prayed that they would not encounter something to trip on again. So many falls could not be good for the babe or Rhaella herself. But now it was not only Rhaella's belly stopping her from seeing what was under her feet, there was no light inside the tunnel, so no one could see where they were going. But wherever it was, the tunnel stretched endlessly.

"Do you think Father made it out?" Rhaella asked fearfully. "Or Grandfather?"

Aerys hesitated, tempted to lie. But he finally settled for the truth. "I don't know, Rhae," he said softly, half-hoping that she wouldn't hear him. "I hope so," he added. As angry as he was with his father and grandfather for forcing this marriage upon him, he didn't want them dead.

She leaned against him heavily, her arm clasping him around the middle. For a moment, they clung to each other like terrified children. "Come on," Rhaella said then. "We need to keep going."

Over their heads, the screams and clambering became louder. Very slowly, the air in the tunnel started acquiring a smoky note to it. Their lungs burned, their eyes hurt, their limbs hurt from all the times they hit a rock at one of the many unexpected turns of the sloping tunnel but they didn't stop until, finally, Steffon fell heavily on the stone floor.

"Come on," Ser Ilan said, leaning over to help him rise.

In the darkness, the boy shook his head, although the others couldn't see it. "I can't move anymore," he murmured.

"You have to."

Steffon's head hurt unbearably, as if it would split in two any moment now. "Leave me here," he said. "Go on with Aerys and Rhaella. Come back for me tomorrow."

"Out of question," Ser Barristan said.

His voice was like a lash. Steffon felt profound shame and he tried to find the strength he needed, and couldn't. Dejected, he slumped back. "Please," he said. "Just go on. I'll swoon any moment now."

"If you do this, I'll kill you," Aerys said; startled, Steffon felt the cold touch of a blade right to his neck. "Rise," his cousin snapped. "Now!"

Steffon couldn't, though, and the sharp point prodded him gently but insistently.

"The Seven curse you, Aerys," he murmured. "All right, all right, I'm coming… I'm trying."

Aerys removed his dagger and clasped his cousin's arm to help him rise, steadying himself against the wall with his other hand. Once Steffon was up, Ser Barristan ducked under his arm and Aerys went back to Rhaella and Ser Ilan.

Their travel through the seven hells went on.

* * *

They noticed the first whiff of smoke in the air a little before sunset; at the time the moon started rising, the sky was slashed with red and black lines. A little later, flocks of frightened birds started flapping their wings in panicked retreat; and when his people started coughing, their eyes watering from the smoke that came in huge clouds veiling the sky, Lord Mikkel Gargalen gave up on counting ominous signs and headed for Summerhall as fast as his sand steed would go.

When they negotiated a small upland, they saw a blazing glow illuminating the night sky.

Behind Mikkel, someone cursed. The lord himself could not look away from the eerie beauty of the scene.

"Summerhall." Mikkel's mother Daella Targaryen stared unseeingly at her childhood home burning in the distance.

Behind Mikkel, clamour arose but he was indifferent to it. His entire kin on his mother's side was there, in the flames. His royal uncle, his cousins, their children…

"Aegon," he heard his mother saying. "They must have gotten him out in time."

Mikkel felt a flicker of hope. Daella was right. It was by no means sure that the Targaryens were in the burning castle. He spurred his steed ahead, the contents of Jaehaerys' letter burning in his mind painfully bright. After the way he and the royal family had parted, he had been stunned to receive a letter at all, let alone a plea to come and meet Jaehaerys - at Summerhall, not King's Landing. Without hesitation, he had decided to keep his mother company for the journey she had already planned. _The gods help me, Uncle, what have you done? What have all of you done?_

Close to the foot of the hill where Summerhall rose they came across a group of servants. Had the fire not lit the entire surrounding, they might have trampled them under their horse's hooves. Mikkel raised a hand to stop the others from moving and moved his steed to the small group. "What happened?" he asked moments before noticing the young man who hung lifelessly on the arms of two of the burliest men. "Aemon!" he cried out. "Aemon, what happened?"

His youngest cousin gave no indication of having heard him. Mikkel dismounted and walked to him. "Aemon! Are you hurt?"

The Prince's eyes were wide and unseeing, as if he didn't register Mikkel grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, albeit gently, for he feared that under Aemon's thorn clothes, there might be some other burns. "Answer me already! Are you hurt?"

He immediately felt stupid for asking that – his cousin's face and arms bore numerous traces of fresh burns. But Aemon's unresponsiveness scared Mikkel more than any wounds to his body, so he shook him once again, this time more roughly.

Aemon's blank stare finally settled on his cousin's face. "Mikkel?"

"Yes, it's me. What happened? Where are the others?"

The bleak despair on Aemon's face gave him the answer and still he asked, "Are they… are they inside?"

But it seemed that the recognition had been too much for Aemon. Once again, his face became blank. Mikkel caught him just before he hit the ground.

"Milk of poppy," one of Aemon's companions explained. "We had to force him into his throat. He… he was fighting us, didn't want to leave before he found the others…"

Hot anger and sharp pain almost blinded Mikkel at the confirmation. So, the others were still inside. His uncle,  kind Jaehaerys, bold Duncan, Rhaella who was… she was to give birth any day now, right? He couldn't bear the thought of them being trapped by the flames, yet Summerhall was burning in front of him and unless they had escaped before how could they escape now?

"Take our provisions out," he ordered his people. "Whatever water there is, carry it to the castle. There is a stream nearby, take water from there also… We must do our best to extinguish the fire."

He looked at his mother, saw the tears pouring down her cheeks. Surprised, he realized that his own cheeks were wet, too. "Take care of Aemon, Mother. Force dreamwine into his throat if you must. I'll be back soon. I have to go there. To see whether there are any survivors."

She nodded. She had already dismounted and now pressed him into a quick hug. "Be careful, Mikkel," she whispered.

"Aren't I always?" he joked feebly and mounted his sand steed again. The magnificent beast whinnied, desperately disagreeable with the course his rider set.

 _If they are alive and I have the good fortune to find them, I'll kill them_ , he thought but he already knew that they weren't and he wouldn't.

* * *

Rhaella felt like she had roamed in the darkness for eternity when she finally stumbled out of the tunnel and took her first breath of fresh air in ages.

Only… it wasn't fresh. It was heavy and smoky, and when she whirled back, she screamed.

They had gone all the way to the foot of the hill of Summerhall. Over them, everything was a huge burning torch.

Now, she started sobbing. The other four came out behind her and were struck speechless. Now, in the light of fire, she saw that their faces were covered in grim and soot. The babe kicked furiously and she doubled over. Someone caught her before she hit the ground and sat her down.

"It's lost," Aerys murmured, his wide eyes fixed on the magnificent castle that would soon be a ruin. "They are lost," he added, his voice oddly expressionless.

Steffon slid down on the grass. "Aerys, why did you say you'd kill me?" he asked. Like his cousin, he looked as if he still couldn't bring himself to believe his eyes.

"So you wouldn't swoon. I'm telling you once again, Steffon, you shouldn't swoon no matter what. Besides, a man with a head wound should not fall asleep for a while."

His voice broke. Then, he and Steffon simultaneously tried to run back to the hill, only to have the two older knights stop them bodily.

"We have to go back," Steffon shouted, as if it was only now that he realized the full extent of the catastrophe. "My mother…"

"Stay put, boy," Ser Ilan snapped. "You cannot help her. Whoever is still in this castle is on their own. We cannot let you risk your lives."

"But my father…" Aerys started. "The King…"

"The King wanted the three of you safe," the knight said. "And that's what we'll do: keep you safe, even from yourselves."

Rhaella groaned again, louder this time. So anguished was her voice that for a moment, everyone forgot about the fire. They crowded over her.

She looked at them with tortured eyes. "I'm giving birth," she mumbled.

A moment of stunned silence followed. Steffon was the first one to regain command over himself. "Are you sure?" he asked uncertainly, hopefully. "It might be the weariness of the running catching up with you…"

"No." Rhaella shook her head. "My waters broke. I am starting to give birth."

"You can't," Aerys said, stupidly. "Not now. Please, Rhae, not now."

And then, the world shook and burning parts of Summerhall started sliding down the hill in all directions.


	5. Chapter 5

The house was quite snug and even comfortable. The bed Rhaella was writhing in was long and wide, the mattress filled with horsehair was covered with a clean wool blanket. The thin sheet was clean as well… or had been in the beginning. Childbirth was a dirty business. In the bottom of the room, there was an old oak coffer, streaked and scraped and the candlestick on it provided most of the light in the falling dusk. But in the eyes of the two boys who had grown up in royal castles the house was no better than a stinking hovel. Oh, they were immensely grateful that they had managed to reach the farm, that the midwife from the near village had come immediately, drawn by the lure of handsome repay. But that was not how and where they had imagined this birth would happen. Then again, it was not how they had imagined their _lives_ would go.

Rhaella's scream from the inside made them both turn a shade paler yet. They held their breath until the scream faded and died, replaced by the midwife's encouraging voice. She was still alive. Still fighting.

In the small yard of the farm, the farmer and his two sons passed them by, giving them looks of concern. They had no idea who those boys were but their finery, although in smoke and tatters, showed that they were no common travelers. And the hands of the labouring girl were so delicate that she would not have worked a day in her life, for sure. The rumours about the burning castle had already reached them and it made sense that the three young people were coming from there. A wise man did not deal with them lords and ladies more than strictly necessary.

"Do you think they escaped?" Aerys asked for what felt like a hundredth time. "Steffon! Answer me!"

"I hope so," his cousin said and Aerys felt a rush of relief. For now, Steffon understood what he was being asked and could hold a conversation. He looked so dazed that he could fall asleep right there, leaning against the wall. Aerys knew that he shouldn't let him but it was hard. They had been awake for one day and a half of another already, or even more, and spent most of this time in desperate fear and frantic worry. Aerys felt that he could go to sleep himself if he only sat down.

He had no idea how far the farm was from Summerhall but he was sure it was too far away for the smoke to have reached here, yet it had. Rationally, Aerys knew that no one could have survived after a fire like the one they had witnessed, yet he fervently hoped that his family had found a way to escape before the castle was turned into a living torch. He, Rhaella, and Steffon had escaped, so why not the others? They would soon know, because he had sent Ser Ilan and Ser Barristan to the village to take horses and go to the nearest town for help with the fire.

A new scream brought his attention back to the house. In the beginning, Rhaella had tried to keep silent but it seemed that she could no longer keep herself under control. It was all the pain in the world caught in a voice that was usually so soft and pleasing.

"She'll die," he heard his own voice saying.

All of a sudden, Steffon was wide awake, his own fears confirmed. "She'll survive, I swear," he said fiercely. "It would mean the end of the world if women died in childbirth."

None of them said what was looming in both their minds. A pale shadow, Aerys' mother, cast her own spell of a memory of such a night of screams and blood. Steffon had been at Storm's End then, but he had overheard his mother and other women talking about the seven days of labour that had ended with the deaths of both mother and little girl.

In the tense silence, they watched as the moon started shining its way through the dusk. Steffon found himself bargaining with the Seven. _If I can stay immobile for an hour and not move a muscle, Rhaella will be fine. If Rhaella is fine, then Mother had escaped. And if Mother escaped, they would all have …_ Were the Seven as forthcoming to a challenge as Aerys had been when they were children together?

Rhaella's next howl made him turn to the house. The challenge was lost.

"Did she sound worse off to you?" Aerys asked.

"No," Steffon said, hesitantly. "What would I know? Maybe it hurts more when it's near the end…"

"Yes, maybe," his cousin agreed, clinging to Steffon's words. But of course, they did not _know_ that it was near the end. What did they know about birth at all? But it had started before they even fled Summerhall, so it was definitely taking too long. More than a day…

 _At least he cares,_ Steffon thought. The way Aerys and Rhaella had been avoiding each other since their wedding had scared him a little. He didn't have any siblings so he was not the one to judge but he had always envied his cousins a little for having each other. Even when they had been squabbling, the bond had been there – and it was sad to witness the way the King's will, the damned prophecy, the wedding neither he nor she had desired had severed it. Awash with relief – and quite light-headed from the pain – Steffon realized that it had not been severed after all, just stretched impossibly thin. Not that it mattered much if Rhaella… no, he wouldn't think like that at all. Anyway, why was it taking so long?

A bleating from the nearby byre made them both turn their heads. To make the horror complete, one of the farm sheep was having her lamb right now. Steffon had been shocked to realize that sometimes, he was unable to tell Rhaella's voice from that of the sheep.

Aerys coughed a little. The smoke no longer filled their lungs like a suffocating grey mass but it made its way slowly, more insidiously. Had the fire been put down already? Steffon felt that he might go mad with not knowing.

From the inside, Rhaella screamed again and this time, they could make out the actual words between the anguished howls. "Take it out," she was saying over and over. "Take this thing out. Get it off me!"

Aerys shuddered and made a few blind steps around. "If they had to decide which one to save," he declared to no one at all, "I don't give a damn about the child. I want Rhaella alive."

Looking at the smoke-streaked sky, his head bursting with pain, Steffon wondered whether Rhaella or the babe would make it out alive.

Aerys looked up, too, and for a while stared at the stars that were slowly emerging. Without looking at Steffon, he asked, "Do you think Grandfather is mad?"

"No," Steffon said, sharply. "Grandfather is the man who is least likely to get mad," he added unconvincingly, because he, too, started wondering all of a sudden. King Aegon was a practical, cool-headed man but he had trusted that wood witch and ruined Aerys and Rhaella's lives. And this attempt to hatch dragons, with all the destruction it had led to… Steffon was starting to have his doubts.

Now, Aerys was staring right in front of him. All of a sudden, he turned to his cousin. "Look at me," he said.

Surprised by the sudden harsh note in his voice, Steffon tried to but focusing was so, so hard…

"Look at me," Aerys ordered again and took Steffon's head in his hands, turning it toward him to make sure that he did. His palms and fingers were strangely cold and reeked of smoke. "And listen."

"I am," the Baratheon boy murmured. "I am."

"I want you to remember what I'm saying now while I still am what I am. No matter what I might say later, it's my current order that is valid: if I ever go mad, take measures to stop me before I can inflict harm. Any measures you see fit."

All of a sudden, Steffon could see clearly. Aerys was very serious – and quite scared. He shook his cousin's hands off. "You won't get mad," he said.

"How can you know?" Aerys asked.

"I can't," Steffon said.

"Then, you'll do it?"

"I can't," Steffon said again.

"You must. Promise me."

But it was too much for Steffon. He was scared enough for the present. He could not bear the thought of a future where prophecies and madness ran rampart. He swayed and started slumping down the wall. Aerys caught him and finally took mercy on him: he sat him against the wall and started talking and demanding answers to keep him awake. Rhaella was screaming, the sheep was bleating, and the farmer's family was running between house and byre, just as concerned about the sheep as it was about the girl and maybe even more. It was all so unreal.

It was already close to midnight when the farmer's wife beckoned them in. Steffon's first look was at the now filthy bed where Rhaella lay with her eyes opened and alive. Her face still bore the echo of agony, only slightly awash by relief. Aerys went straight to her and she smiled a little, pointing him with her eyes at the midwife who stood at the coffer, working over the small bundle there. Aerys went there and the woman lifted the bundle so he could have a look at it . "It's a boy, a fine boy," she announced.

"Why isn't he crying?" Aerys asked with a mix of worry and relief. Now, Steffon realized that the babe was really very quiet.

"He already did and that's enough," the woman said. "He's healthy and strong, I assure you."

For a moment, Aerys stared down at the child and then reached for the purse on his belt. But the woman shook her head and indicated that she could not take it – she was holding the newborn in her filthy arms.

"I'll reward you later," Aerys promised. "You'll receive all the Grand Maester would have and more."

The midwife looked at him, her eyes narrowed. Until now, she had had no time to think of anything else but the poor girl who had looked as if she might not make it. Now, though, she noticed the clothing of all three of them, the jewels flashing on the girl's neck and wrists, the fact that the purse she had refused looked fill to the brim. "Who are you?" she asked, suspiciously, looking him up and down.

"Prince Aerys! The King's grandson…"

"The Prince of Dragonstone," a bleak voice said from the doorway.

Everyone turned at the newcomers – a small contingent of men at-arms led by Ser Aubrey Arlington who had been serving at King's Landing for many years.

Carefully avoiding to look at the bed, he bowed to Aerys, very formally. "Long live our lord King Jaehaerys," he said.

Aerys paled. Steffon closed his eyes. Behind them, Rhaella gasped and finally sank into a blissful oblivion.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left a review. Special thanks to Riana1 who didn't miss a single one!

Jaehaerys Targaryen was no stranger to pain – but this one was an entirely new thing altogether, a monster that bellowed in his sleep, wracked every ounce of his brain, made him twitch and moan so they had to increase the amount of milk of poppy until Princess Daella stepped in and ordered that there would be no further increase.

"But he's in pain," the Grand Maester insisted.

"He's also alive," Daella snapped. "I am not ready to risk killing him to alleviate his pain."

Grand Maester Pycelle swallowed convulsively. The reputation of the Princess as the gentlest among the late King Maekar's children was collapsing by the hour. She would suffer no fools and no keening, bark orders and hold the survivals of Summerhall and those who had arrived in haste to her standards of keeping up – which were almost impossibly high. She commanded the men and women around with the same iron fist Pycelle imagined her father had commanded his men-at-arms on the battlefield – and she would hear no arguments. From Princess Rhaella who had been ordered to lie still and not trying to take care of her new babe herself out of fear that she might pass out to the two huge men who lifted Jaehaerys every day so she could change his sheets and clothes, everyone was quickly learning to take her orders as if they had all the authority of her late royal brother behind them.

"Your Grace," he said patently. "This pain is like no other people experience. It is…"

"Yes," she interrupted. "I think it's clear what it does. It doesn't make one immune against the threat overdosing milk of poppy is to one's health, though. So no more of this. I won't have it."

"My lady," he insisted. "I am the Grand Maester here. With all due respect…"

That was the conversation Jaehaerys woke up to, with a new moan even before he opened his eyes. Daella and Pycelle both rushed at his side.

His eyelids slowly lifted. He looked around, confused. "What… what happened?" he asked and his face twitched by a new spasm. He looked inquiringly at his aunt, quite unsurprised by her presence. He had clearly forgotten that she had left court. Or maybe he thought she had come to visit his father, as planned.

The fact that it was not that become evident when his eyes filled with horror as the memory crashed over him. A strange sound escaped his lips – half a scream and half a sob. He started to rise and was about to fall back helplessly if not for Daella's hands under his back. She slowly lowered him against his pillow and he started to rise again. "Rhaella… Aerys! The others…"

"Rhaella and Aerys are fine," she said quickly. "She's sleeping now and Aerys should come any minute."

He went lightheaded with relief and then his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he fought to stay awake through the red cloud of pain. "You aren't lying to me, are you?"

He wanted to believe her but how could have someone escaped from that burning hell?

"No," Daella said. "I assure you, they are both fine. The babe was born. He's five days old already and he's adorable. I think…"

"What about the others!"

"Your Grace," the Grand Maester spoke. "You need rest. Let us bring you some clear soup and…"

Jaehaerys paid him no mind. "What about the others!"

His purple eyes fixed his aunt's indigo ones.

Daella looked aside, her pain evident. After a moment, she said softly. "Aemon and Steffon are alive."

For a moment, Jaehaerys didn't understand. And then the memory of Rhaelle pushed forward and he closed his eyes. His tears flowed as his aunt's meaning sank in. The pain in his arm was nothing compared to the pain in his heart.

Daella sat down on his bed and stroked his cheek. "Sleep," she murmured softly, just like his mother had done decades ago. "Sleep and get better. We'll take care of everything. You just need to recover your strength. Sleep."

"Yes," Jaehaerys murmured. "I'll sleep. And I'll pray I never wake up."

But of course, he did. Numerous times, he woke up and went back to sleep, fighting his treacherous body that insisted that he should do what he should have done about a hundred times after his birth and leave it to die in peace. Each time he opened his eyes, he found out that he had been weeping in his sleep and each time there were different people in the unknown room he's been taken to. His aunt Daella again. Steffon, asking anxiously someone Jaehaerys couldn't see whether he would recover fully. Aerys leaning over the bed. A woman he didn't know, dressed like a peasant who was looking at him both awed and terrified. Mikkel arguing with the Grand Maester about this or that. One or the other of them mentioned that Jaehaerys had lost an arm but he found out he wasn't surprised – somehow, he had known it before and he didn't care. He had lost so much more than an arm.

He didn't know how much time had passed. Days and nights merged in a roaring sea of grief, bitterness, raging pain in his shoulder, and the black realization of just how wrong they had been. Until one day he woke up to a few sunrays stealing through the shutters.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked the figure sitting near the bed.

Aerys startled – he hadn't realized that his father was awake. He raked a hand through his hair, visibly puzzled as to what to answer, as if this question was a very hard one indeed. "I don't remember," he finally said. "I think I had some bread yesterday night."

"Then go and have some more," Jaehaerys said. His voice was raspy and pained but it was mostly because of the long disuse. He was still throbbing with pain but he was also thirsty and hungry like hell.

Aerys shook his head. "Everything tastes like cinder now," he said.

Jaehaerys fell silent and let him bring a goblet to his lips. "How is Rhaella?" he asked.

"She's fine," his son said, too quickly. Jaehaerys stared at him in mute horror. He could not lose her, too. Not after he had lost so many others.

Aerys seemed to realize his mistake. "No," he said. "She's fine, truly. I just… I just didn't want to worry you. She suffered with milk fever but she recovered."

Jaehaerys stared at him long and hard. Aerys wasn't lying. Rhaella had fought this greatest plague for new mothers and survived. His heart ached as he took in just how gaunt and tormented Aerys looked. "What can I do for you?" he murmured. "How can I help you?"

The eyes that met him were two pools of purple-dark hopelessness. "Tell me that it was a nightmare, Father. If you do, I'll believe it. Tell me that nothing happened, that I'll wake up any minute now and it'll all be a bad dream."

It was the first thing he wanted of his father in more than a year. Jaehaerys so wished to be able to give it to him. He said nothing, just looked at his son with aching tenderness.

Aerys rose and touched his father's hand. "I'll send you something to eat but then, I have to go. There are some problems with the supply for the survivors…"

Jaehaerys watched him leave and wondered how much time he had spent battling the pain.

Next time he woke up, it was to find Mikkel Gargalen drowsing at his bedside. Jaehaerys had always envied his cousin a little to catch some sleep wherever he felt he should. _He can sleep flat against a wall_ , Duncan used to joke… had used to joke. Still, his face was troubled even in his sleep and he woke up at Jaehaerys' faintest stirring. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Jaehaerys' mouth curved in a dark grimace. "Probably just as I look," he murmured. "You're looking at me as if I am coming from hell."

"You are," Mikkel said. "There is no use to pretend otherwise."

Jaehaerys coughed and felt the ash in his throat. His covers also smelt of ash. He suspected that his hair and skin did, as well. He drank, with Mikkel supporting his head, and then had a bite of the fresh bread his cousin handed him. The platter was simple, wooden. The chamber was also plain. They had clearly commandeered one of the village houses until he got better.

He stared at his cousin. Mikkel looked back at him steadily. There was no awkwardness in the air, no acknowledgment of the horrible end of their last meeting when Mikkel had refused to attend Aerys and Rhaella's wedding, declaring that there was only so much he could give to this kingdom and its obsessed rulers.

" _It isn't like this," Jaehaerys had tried to explain. "It's the prophecy…"_

" _It always is. Prophecy and bringing dragons back. And here I thought Daeron the Drunk was the one who wouldn't stop prattling about it."_

" _Don't compare us to him!"_

" _I won't," Mikkel agreed readily. His so Targaryen eyes glittered with helplessness and contempt. "Because he, at least, had the dreams. He knew what he was talking about – and he had the good sense to be scared of it!" He paused. "You refuse to show mercy to your children? Very well, I cannot force you or the King to change your minds. But I sure as hell won't validate it by attending!"_

" _You can't. You have to stay until we choose a new Hand, at least…"_

" _This is your problem," Mikkel cut him off. "It's no concern of mine. Or do you think I'll accept to be Hand to an obsessed king? I am going away, Jaehaerys, and I don't plan on returning anytime soon."_

_Jaehaerys only stared. He hadn't seen such an outburst since his cousin was fifteen. "You cannot leave."_

_Mikkel laughed. "What, you'll send the Kingsguard to stop me? You must realize it, Jaehaerys, your prophecy might govern the lives of all of you but it has no power over me."_

" _Prophecies carry power of their own," Jaehaerys reminded him, stunned that he could not make him understand. Mikkel's interest in books and learning was second only to Jaehaerys' own.  
_

" _But not the one you think. Not the power of enforcement. When are you going to see it, Jaehaerys, your prophecy doesn't have any power over me! I can leave, or I can stay as I please. And I think I've put up with enough things, from the moment I had to take my father's place on the Small Council. I won't watch how you ruin those children's lives believing it's for the greater good. Because it isn't."_

_With a slam of the door, Jaehaerys' oldest friend left the room and their lives._

But now, he was back.

"You were right," Jaehaerys murmured in an anguished voice. "You've been right all along."

"I'd rather not be."

"I know."

How could have they been so wrong? It all looked so irrational, such a _madness_. Jaehaerys left the plate aside, astounded at how important the left arm was even when one only used his right, and looked at his cousin. "How are Rhaella and the rest of them?"

"Rhaella is getting better," Mikkel said without hesitation as he reached over to help Jaehaerys recline against the pillows. "Steffon too. They are still shocked by what happened but they are young. They will overcome it."

He decided not to mention Aemon who would not speak or look at anyone, hoping that Jaehaerys wouldn't notice this missing piece. Frowning, his cousin asked, "Why is Aunt Daella here? Has Aelinor given birth already? Why did she leave her side?"

Mikkel bit his lip; through the pain, Jaehaerys noticed his slight hesitation. "She gave birth a month ago," he said. "A little girl. Naeryn, she's named. They are both fine now."

Jaehaerys' scowl deepened. There was something wrong here. He supposed that Mikkel's sister might not feel much love for the child she had brought into the world in the wake of the Blackfyres' last attempt to seize the Iron Throne. The Seven only knew how many unwanted children had been born and what happened to them. And how many would be born to fear and misery because of their madness. _Sheer madness it was_ , Jaehaerys admitted for the first time and vowed that it would stop now before he insisted on rising and dressing as best as he could without his left hand.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who took the time to leave a review, they mean more to an author than you know!

_A month later…_

Winter had come all of a sudden, so unexpectedly that maesters were still beating themselves up over not being able to predict it. From his place in the Small Council chamber, Jaehaerys could see his white curtain, see the children fighting with snowballs in the courtyard below. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it was his own children down there in those years a lifetime ago, before everything went to the seven hells. Duncan's huge hound ran around, then sat in the centre of the marble pavement and gave a high keening sound. _He's still waiting for his master_ , Jaehaerys thought and fought the sudden tears in his eyes as the Red Keep stirred, murmuring about the bloody dog and what should be done about him.

Rhaella ran in the courtyard and headed straight for the dog; with a last low whine, he pressed himself against her feet. The King's lips curved into a small smile. Yes, the hound was still mourning for Duncan, but it looked like he was steadily becoming Rhaella's dog. She knelt in the snow and threw her arms around his brown neck.

"The renovation can start in less than two months, immediately after the coronation," the Master of Coin said. "I've already made arrangements about the builders. I do think the Crown can part with some of the annual revenue from the Crownlands without too much bother. In less than five years it should be…"

Jaehaery sharply looked up, cursing himself for having lost the thread of conversation. He didn't even have the excuse of milk of poppy any longer, for he had stopped taking it. His shoulder still throbbed mercilessly but he could actually move without losing consciousness from the pain, so he would not submerge himself into this world of potion induced dreams and regrets he had dwelled in for so long.

"What are you talking about, my lord?" he asked.

"About the restoration of Summerhall, Your Grace," Malar Hightower answered readily. "It can be done in…"

No one in the Council had been prepared for the thunder that followed: the King's face darkened, his eyes flashed indigo, like those of his brother Duncan when in one of his rages. His remaining hand clenched in a fist. "Whom have you asked, Lord Hightower?" he spat. "Do you have the King's permission?"

In the silence that followed everyone stared at him aghast. No doubt they were thinking that he was losing it, that his mind had started failing him, just like his youngest brother's mind was failing _him_.

"I don't want to restore it," Jaehaerys went on. "I want it just like it is, a memorial of the folly of kings. I don't want a single brick returned to its former place; not a single flower planted in the gardens…"

His father's old advisors stared at each other, horrified; Jaehaerys realized that he must sound like mad to them. But he knew that he was sane – for first time in more than a year. He would not send a single man, a single coin to this cursed place. Their folly, their striving to attain a prophecy that would not be a true prophecy if it needed to be attained had besmirched this favourite haunt of his with the seal of shame and despair. They could never restore Summerhall – they could just restore the pretense that everything was fine again and maybe nothing ever went wrong, even. Jaehaerys didn't want this. He wanted to remember, for a king should never forget.

* * *

"You seem to keep the Red Keep buzzing."

The words were just what he would have expected of his brother only about a month ago. But they were said without a stir of the bandages indicating a teasing smile, without the gleam in the eye indicating that Aemon enjoyed it tremendously when it was Jaehaerys who made the Small Council and all courtiers be on tenterhooks and not Duncan and Aemon himself, for a change. It was as if his nature remembered the way he spoke and acted but not the emotions behind his words and actions. Jaehaerys felt chilled all of a sudden. Once again, he realized that he preferred the silent, shell-shocked Aemon to this empty shell. Silence and lack of reactions meant that he was still dealing with the loss of his family and the wife he had loved despite all their problems; but the man who was half-sitting in bed was a stranger in Aemon's clothes, with Aemon's face – or what could be seen of it under the bandages, with eyes that were listless and expressionless. _Who are you_ , Jaehaerys wanted to ask.

"I don't want to restore Summerhall," he said.

"Why?" his brother asked.

"Because I am not losing efforts and money to rebuilt something that'd best stay destroyed."

The piece of skin visible between Aemon's singed eyebrows creased a little and then became smooth again, as if frowning pained him. "You cannot erase it, Jaehaerys. What we did cannot be destroyed, no matter how ruined Summerhall is…"

"And we cannot make it right by rebuilding Summerhall," Jaehaerys snapped and immediately felt a pang of regret. It was cruel of him to lash out at his brother like this but he was so tired of being reasonable and suppressing his own feelings.

"I know," Aemon said evenly, hopelessly. "You have no right."

"What?"

"You have no right," the young man said again.

Jaehaerys stared at him. "What right are you talking about?"

Aemon's eyes now glinted like amethysts but they were hollow, with no reason behind them. Jaehaerys startled. Once again, he had seen this strange change he had been witnessing in his brother since Aemon had started connecting to the world once again. He had started… getting feeble-minded. There were cracks in his thinking, lapses that lacked any logic at all. In the beginning, Jaehaerys had thought it was only natural, then he had started getting annoyed, and finally he had started getting worried.

"No right," Aemon said once again, with some peculiar and stupid obstinacy.

"But Aemon, do you realize what you're saying? This is just an old ruin now. We can restore it or we can leave it as it is. We lost so much more than a few bricks."

"I bet they were all stunned when you told them that they aren't the ones to decide what you'd do with our ancestral castle," Aemon suddenly said. "If you let them have their way, you'll soon have them peeking in your bedchamber to give their opinion about what underclothes you should be wearing."

"Indeed!"

Jaehaerys smiled a little and felt a deep relief. Aemon's thread of thought was whole once again. But a few minutes later, his brother said once again, "You have no right to leave it like this."

"Why?"

"Because."

"For the Seven's sake, explain!... Why should I have no right to leave the damned place as it is?"

Aemon's purple eyes stared at him blankly, glassy and stupid. And Jaehaerys realized that his brother's thread of thought was thorn once again.

"Aemon! Explain it to me, what are you thinking about right now? You say we should not leave Summerhall ruined… Fine, I'll rebuild it. But why are you talking about right? Tell me, what's the link between the two? Give me a reason! Are you thinking, Aemon?"

He shook him, mindless of Aemon's bandages, not paying any mind to the shooting pain the movement sent through his own phantom arm. "Aemon!"

"What do you want?" Aemon asked all of a sudden.

"Are you thinking?"

"Yes!... What kind of question is this?"

The crack in his thought had disappeared all of a sudden. But Jaehaerys realized that his brother was just as scared as he was.

* * *

"I'll need a Hand."

"Yes, I'd say it's obvious," Mikkel Gargalen said and immediately regretted it. He hadn't wanted to sound this nonchalant, he had just wanted to break the tense air that clung to Maegor's Holdfast permanently – and he had said exactly what he shouldn't have.

Jaehaerys laughed softly, amused for first time in months. "Oh I knew I could rely on you, " he said. "No one else dared say something like that to me – they are afraid that they'll anger me, or maybe that I'll be so stunned that I'll keel over and die right here and now… or maybe they think I don't _know_ that I'm short of a hand. But you can always rely on Mikkel to break convention to shreds."

"Still. I didn't mean it."

"Oh you did. And you know what? I think exactly the same."

Mikkel started to pour for both of them but Jaehaerys shook his head. "I'd better get used to it," he said. He was not relying on having a servant with him all the time for small tasks like pouring his wine. Once again, he realized how important having a left hand was even for tasks performed with the right one. Filling a goblet was much easier when one could hold it in its place.

Mikkel didn't comment when his cousin spilled a liberal amount of liquid from the decanter in his effort. Jaehaerys was so focused on his task that he noticed the clear colour of the liquid only when he gave Mikkel the goblet. "Water?" he asked.

The Dornishman shrugged. "I found out that I've become too fond of my wine lately," he said, carefully nonchalant once again. "And it won't do for Westeros to have a drunkard for a king, either."

It was getting dark already and the servants stole in to light the candelabra. Jaehaerys told them not to draw the curtains – he wanted to see the small white puffs of snow. They made him feel… cleaner.

"I cannot be your Hand," Mikkel said. "You know I can't."

"I know," Jaehaerys sighed. He was perfectly aware of what most lords thought of him – that he was weak and susceptible to influence. He could ill afford opinions that Mikkel was the real ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, that Dorne was trying to establish a dynasty of Hands in King's Landing. While Mikkel's abilities had been essential for keeping the realm running during his father's long, terrible ailment, they would now sow disgruntlement and riots if Jaehaerys raised him officially to the second most important rank in the realm. He needed to prove that he'd rule on his own, without unduly influences.

'In fact, my mother and I decided it's time for us to leave."

Mikkel's voice was even and pleasant but Jaehaerys felt what was behind it: a separation that would be very long indeed. Mikkel could not return until Jaehaerys proved to the realm that he was his own man. He took a long breath. "Will you take Aemon with you?" he asked.

His cousin looked at him, surprised. "Aemon? Yes, of course, but… why?"

Jaehaerys didn't answer. There was no need – Mikkel would realize it soon enough. Whatever it was that was going on with Aemon, he would not subject him to the humiliation of hearing the whispers and speculations of court. And he believed that his brother had a better chance to recover somewhere far away, in a place that was new to him – and more peaceful than the ever stirring King's Landing court. Besides – Jaehaerys did not like the fact that he was thinking about that but he had to – it would not help the family's reputation if Aemon deteriorated further in full view of the public. Jaehaerys had the stability of the kingdom to think about. Aerys, Rhaella, and now little Rhaegar – they all would fare better if they were not haunted by speculations of their mad uncle.

Mikkel nodded. "I will, of course," he said. "Don't bother, with my mother, he'll be in good hands."

Jaehaerys nodded and drank to find that his lips were parched with the burden of making the decision. "Be good to him, Mikkel," he entreated. "Whatever you're doing for him, think of it as something you're doing for me."

Mikkel nodded again; with the sense of foreboding, Jaehaerys realized that there was something final in the tone of their conversation, as if they were not talking about some short-term arrangements but ones they had to make because they thought they might never meet again.

 


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who left a review. Thank you, Riana1, for never forgetting to leave one!

_Three years later…_

"It's too quiet in here."

The words were Alric Gargalen's and Aemon Targaryen looked up at him, surprised and slightly wary. When his cousin decided that it was too quiet somewhere, that usually meant that he'd find a way to make it noisier. A lot noisier. And in a way that was not quite to Aemon's liking. _Alric likes living dangerously_ , Mikkel often said with perfectly straight face – and it was not quite a joke. Once, Aemon had been not so different; in the last few years he had come to appreciate silence and peace – and those tended to disappear as soon as Lord Gargalen's younger brother appeared in Saltshore with his wife, the Princess of Dorne. Arianne Martell seemed to love this place as much as her husband did – and Oberyn had decided that it was a place for _fun_. The boy's idea of that raised the hairs on Aemon's neck quite horizontally. Oh he liked the little imp well enough but the very idea of a fully grown up Oberyn Martell…

"They are still angry," Aemon said. "You spoiled their game by washing them – and none too gently."

His cousin gave him an incredulous look. In the silence that followed, the sea outside roared its defiance to the sun that was trying to dry it up. "And what do you think I should have done? Let them _die_? You do realize that when one's entire skin is painted with house paint, it leads to death? And the girls were covered head to toe in red and blue."

And what a sight they had been! Aemon still chuckled at the memory – but the howls that followed at Alric's merciless command – and deed! – of cleaning them were not easily forgettable either. And the smell of the cleaning solutions…

"Oberyn promised that he'd abstain from such entertainment from now on," he reminded Alric and poured icy lemon water for both of them. "What, you don't trust his promises?"

Alric drank gratefully. "Oberyn's promises," he said, "last until he forgets them – between an hour and a week. This one will be out the window in a day, I think."

This time, Aemon's smile was a little sad. A little envious. He had always wanted children of his own – and with years, it had become clear that he was not likely to get them from Melyne. It was true that Mikkel's Errol had been born fourteen years into the marriage – but how many marriages produced children after such a long interval? In the absence of children of his own, he had loved Aerys, Rhaella, and Steffon. Now, he had Mikkel's children and especially Aelinor's Naeryn; but when the rest of his aunt Daella's grandchildren arrived along with the havoc they inevitably wrecked, he was reminded that he was young and on the mend, that he could still have that – if only he had the courage to seek it out. But the damage Summerhall had left in his soul was far worse than the one in his body. It had shaken his confidence that he could tell right from wrong, that he deserved the tiniest bit of happiness, that he could make someone else happy – or even keep them alive.

The loud and clear clang of a bell cut their conversation short. They looked at each other, surprised, and their confusion grew when the sound didn't stop. Instead, it was followed by another bell.

"What's going on?" Aemon asked. "Alric, do you…"

All he got in reply was a helpless shrug… and the sound of a third bell that arouse a whisper in fear in his chest. The memory of the last time he had heard such a harmony of sounds through the veil of pain and unconsciousness came alive in his mind. And when all the bells in Saltshore sang their mourning, he knew for sure what had happened.

"Aemon," Alric started. "I…"

Aemon raised his hand. He didn't want to hear anything – no confirmation, no denial, no attempts at sympathy. Nothing. From the outside, Mikkel's voice came, hoarse and angry. "Who was the fool who rang them? I said no one would do this until I had the chance to talk to my family!"

The door opened softly. Aemon received the confirmation he had been dreading as soon as he saw Mikkel's puffy, reddened eyes. He had been weeping.

Once again, Aemon raised his hand, as if by delaying the news he could make it invalid.

Staggering, he went out into the hot sun. The servants were running around on their chores. The children were still playing in the courtyard. A little girl ran up to him, her face concerned, and asked how he was, but he could only see the faintest outline of her face and he couldn't tell whether it was Elia Martell, or Alynna Gargalen. Somewhere from his left, Doran ordered everyone to keep silent. He was a smart one, Doran, and he had seen fourteen namedays already. He must have realized what all the bells ringing simultaneously meant. Aemon noticed everything around him with a sense of detachment, as if it was some kind of mummer's show.

Slowly, he made his way into the sept. There was no one in front of him – and he couldn't turn his head to look around even if he wanted to. He knelt in front of the altar of the Stranger, his eyes as dry and burning as they had been that terrible day when flames had been consuming Summerhall,, when it had all started.

Memories floodied him, heavy and scalding with the terror. He wanted to cry and he couldn't.

He could see Jaehaerys as he had been all those years ago, so kind and so frail – and so unwilling to admit that he was. Sitting patiently in Aemon's chambers when the little boy needed an audience, although the things that had excited Aemon couldn't have been all that interesting to Jaehaerys. His face, so collected as he listened to Duncan raging about the disparaging remarks whispered behind Jaehaerys' back. _It doesn't matter_ , he always said. _And anyway, they are entitled to their own opinion._ Only when Aemon had grown up, he had started to realize that his brother couldn't have been all that indifferent. His calm acceptance that he'd never be as good as Duncan, yet always striving to do his best for a world that rejected him. The soft glow of warmth that attracted people to him. His care for everyone. The happiness that he held like precious gift. His strength in the face of tragedy. His thoughtfulness at sending Aemon away, although at the time Aemon had thought it a punishment and rejection… Now all this was gone, to be burned like all dragons were. After all those years of contending with the Stranger, his brother had finally met him face to face – and Aemon realized that the very thought of Jaehaerys' ever impeding death made the actuality of it all more improbable. Jaehaerys had been supposed to oversmart the Stranger for many more years to come. He always had.

Aemon pressed his scorching forehead upon his clasped hands with white straps of scars of burning. His belly heaved but he managed to stifle the need to be sick. His joints felt dislocated.

Finally, he staggered to the door and somehow made it to his chambers without noticing whom it was that he met. He told his servants that he didn't want anyone in and there was something in his voice that brooked no argument.

Only when he stood at the window did he realize that dusk had already started falling. He had spent hours kneeling in the sept. Someone had lit a few candles in the chamber. Outside, the sea roared dully and mournfully in rage and grief.

It was already dark outside and the candles had burned quite low when the door opened. Aemon whirled around, enraged, ready to throw out the intruder – and then paused, seeing who they were.

"I've been pacing in front of your door for weeks," he said. His voice sounded hoarse, pained as if from a long disuse.

"I know," his cousin Aelinor replied. In the low light of the few candles left, her hair shone like soft silver. Her eyes looked almost black. Once, when she had started turning into a woman and he was a young man, and there was this expectation that he should wed her, her resemblance to his mother and sister had been something that repelled him, something that wouldn't feel right in his bed; now, it felt soothing, drawing him to her further. _Blood sings to blood_ , someone had said once. And the tune of hers had become tantalizingly irresistible. "You never entered, though."

She made a step inside, suddenly uncertain. _She's as scared as I am_ , Aemon suddenly realized. But she coped better with fear than he did. A moment later, she was already next to him, her arms encircling his waist, her cheek resting against his back. All of a sudden, he felt boneless, unable to keep standing.

Aelinor gave a little shriek of shock when he slumped against her but almost immediately, she held him tightly, more steadily, and led him to the bed where they fell together, clinging to each other. She smoothed his hair off his cheek. "I am so sorry," she murmured.

"Yes," he breathed back. "Me, too…"

He rested his head against her shoulder and let her cradle him as he had seen her cradling her child. Her lips touched his hair, his nose, his sore eyes and the scar on his cheek. Only now did Aemon realize that he had been crying, that his eyes were burning, that his nose was probably running. Aelinor didn't seem to mind, though, and he was content just to lie in her arms.

"Somehow, I was so used to him always being on the verge of dying that I never thought he would," he murmured. "Makes no sense, does it?"

She smoothed his hair and he pressed closer to her. "It does, Aemon," she murmured back. "It makes perfect sense. I never thought he'd die either."

He felt the tear falling in his hair. _She's mourning him, too_ , he thought as sobs finally shook him until her arms around him was the only things anchoring him to reality into the black abyss of despair.

Much later, Aelinor kissed the last of his tears away and reached for the vial on the coffer at the right side of the bed. There was a note of hesitation in her voice. "Does this… relieve you?"

He looked up at the white ointment she had her fingers curled around and smiled a little. "It does. In the beginning, I couldn't go to sleep without it. It soothed my skin. Now, I still like it but I don't need it so much any more."

She hesitated once again. "May I rub it in?"

Once, he would have said _no_ without thinking twice. The few scars on his face, neck, and arms were nothing compared to the wound that was his body from neck to knees. Scars that could never be erased. Tight muscles wasted away. Ugly patches of discoloured skin.

The last candle hissed out and died. Aemon reached out and lit another one. Aelinor gave him a questioning look and he smiled faintly. "Go on," he said and rose to take his clothes off.

Her eyes went all over him thoroughly, steadily. Not once did she flinch. He lay down and closed his eyes as she started rubbing the ointment in his feet. Two broken things, they had been when he had first come, two people who were fighting to put their worlds back together or die trying. That had brought up them closer than they had been in all the time they had spent at King's Landing when the age difference of eight years had separated them physically and the little they had seen of each other, they hadn't liked.

Slowly, her fingers went up his calves, his knees, the terrible scars all over his thighs. At the places where his skin had retained or regained sensitivity, he felt her touch like caress.

_Will she…?_ He didn't know what to expect as she got higher and higher yet. On one hand, he didn't know whether he could control his reaction if she touched them _there_ ; on the other, he was suddenly scared that there might be no reaction at all. While he knew that Aelinor had had a lover for a while about a year ago – and the rumour played it up to no end, making it not _a_ lover but ten, fifty, each night a different one – he hadn't had a woman all those three years since Melyne's death, hadn't even felt lust for one, except for his slowly building desire for Aelinor herself. And yet it was not the passion he had once felt for many of the ladies at court but rather a longing to make love to her slowly, tenderly, to give her shelter and find one within her body. He didn't even know whether he'd be able to perform sexually again in the normal way, with the scar his body had become. He… oh, the reaction was there all right. _Well, what could be expected of the old devil when a beautiful lady is feeling him below the belt_ , he thought briefly and felt a deep relief that she didn't show that she had noticed. Somehow, it would feel indecent to pay attention to it right now. They would have enough time for it later. He just let her rub the soothing ointment all over him, in the blackened skin of his belly, in his arms and face, over his closed eyelids and eyebrows. She finished her ministrations with a soft kiss on his forehead before rising to take her own garments off. His eyes went over the stretch marks on the creamy skin of her belly, brown and angry… and another one that looked like a knife scar. He gave her a long inquiring look.

She shook her head. "Don't ask, Aemon. Not tonight."

He reached out and she lay down next to him. They huddled together under the light cover and Aelinor soon rose to bring them a blanket, for they were terribly cold in the warm night.

"I planned to go to King's Landing soon," he spoke after a while. "Not to stay there but see them, you know. But I kept postponing it. I never believed he was truly so ill. If only I had known…"

She held him closer. "But you didn't know. None of us did." She sighed. "Not to stay there, you say?" she asked. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "This, I do know, though: I cannot stay in King's Landing. Because if I do, I'll fall into the same black hole of madness Jaehaerys hauled me from _and this time, I won't be able to scramble out._ I'll end up my days in sorrow, despair and remorse, just the next mad Targaryen." He paused. "I'll have to find a place for myself in this world, I guess."

Aelinor kissed his cheek. "Maybe your place is with me, you know. With us – me and Naeryn."

He smiled faintly. Her words echoed with the sound of memory, for once Melyne had told him almost the same thing. He no longer felt like the dashing young prince his late wife had fallen in love with. He was now a shell of that man, a disfigured one who'd never be able to regain full control over his body, one who still fought his guilt every day and his nightmares every night; soon enough, Aelinor would find out that he needed simple chores being done for him when a few years ago he'd just do it himself without noticing, that he needed to be held in the darkness and soothed to sleep, that he was no dragon after all, for the dragon prophecies had claimed the lives of so many and the one who had not only survived but led the rest of them on the road to recovery, the last true dragon, had just died far away in King's Landing. He was not the dragon Melyne had taken him for but he now thought that perhaps Aelinor could love the man, for they had come to know each other at their weakest and it had brought them together, not driven them apart.

"Yes," he sighed. "Maybe it is."

There was no certainty in his words but then, there had been none in hers either. He had felt certain in his promise to Melyne, and she had felt certain about Eltor Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, yet now Melyne and Eltor were dead and they remained. They wouldn't have believed each other if they had promised certainty. All they had to offer was the chance to make a change for good. And it was more than enough. They lay there, holding each other as close as they could get, the beating of their hearts the only promise they could and would trust to see them through for now, at least, for they now knew that life was woven by pain and compromises.

Behind their windows, the sea had exhausted its rage and now rested calmly, gathering strength to meet the new day.

 


End file.
